CHAPTER IX
HEIRLOOMS
As the Fabian car started toward home, Edgar hoped his sister would rally him on his failure to chastise the puny artist from the West. Anything was better than one of Kathleen's "stills," as he called his sister's periods of scornful silence. He was Kathleen's elder, he was her brother. By every law of propriety she should be guided by him and lean upon his opinions; but as he now reflected she was "more apt to jump on them."
At present her sombre eyes looked straight ahead under the picture hat, and her countenance expressed only composure of mind and body. He had thrown away his cigarette, and he began to hum the favorite aria from "Madam Butterfly." Kathleen, if she spoke at all, would probably try to persuade him to say nothing to their mother of the scene just passed. He would offer her an opening for speech. Perhaps she was anxious in spite of her acted composure.
"I heard 'Butterfly' last week," he said. "Farrar can have me."
Silence.
"Well," he looked around at the slender dark face with the eyes full of slumberous fire. "Well, why don't you get off one of those juices of yours about the fair Geraldine probably not being aware of her good luck, et cetera?"